


Down on the Plains of Lah'mu

by shortcircuitify



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, F/M, Fix-It, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9762377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortcircuitify/pseuds/shortcircuitify
Summary: AU: Abandoned by Saw Gerrera and learning of her parent's deaths shortly afterwards, Jyn learns to live on her own on the almost barren planet of Lah'mu, growing what her parents started. It is only a matter of time before a bloody mercenary ends up on her farm, asking for time to stay, until he can disappear from the galaxy. Nothing goes to plan.Chirrut and Baze are along for the ride.





	1. Chapter 1

She sits, waits, just like her Papa told her to. She wonders, still, why she has to run away from Uncle Krennic. But Papa insisted, and so she listened to him. Her necklace is tight in her fist, and she keeps it close to her mouth, kissing it and feeling the cool rock scratch against her nails. She must wait. Everything will be okay.

_Papa will be okay. Mama will be okay._

She repeats the words like a prayer, as the sun slowly sets through the slit of her hiding hole, and darkness envelopes her completely. But she sits, and waits, and waits. Her Papa told her of Saw, but where is he, when everything is so black? Her tummy growls, tears streaking down her as hysteria starts to set in. Her Papa should be back by now, Mama cooking dinner for the evening. But there is no one, only darkness.

She sobs, even though Papa told her not to. _It is too loud,_ but she can’t seem to hold them behind her mouth any longer. The broken sounds escape her throat, dry and parched and she can taste blood on her tongue. She sobs and screams, but no one comes to save her, and soon her eyes are sore and her body tired, exhaustion setting in.

And yet no one comes, and slowly, the orange of sunrise seeps its way through the tiny little hole above her head. Papa certainly didn’t mean to wait this long, did he? Jyn isn’t so sure, but by now everything should be okay, _right_? She whimpers.

And slowly, she creeps through the hole, the lid closing with a _thud_ of finality behind her. Her steps are hesitant, watchful, as she creeps her way towards home. The soil is muddy beneath her feet, clinging to her legs. It must have rained the night before, the air damp and heavy on her tongue. It is a small relief.

Everything is silent, her home undisturbed, the crops green and fertile.

“Mama?” she whispers, her voice still too loud.

“Papa?” she tries, a little louder. There is no answer, and she is certain that Saw is not around. He wasn’t there when he was supposed to be, and she pouts.

Slowly, slowly, she traces the prints in the mud that were not there when she hid away, and slowly she follows them to the end of her childhood, her throat closing up.

\---

He still feels the blood on his hands. The target was as easy as he imagined, and that meant he only had a gaping wound in his arm. At least there was no leg injury, but that didn’t mean he was off free, since his arm couldn’t shoot when it was lying limp at his side.

At least he was paid up front. No trace, no returns or exchanges. The target was dead, and all of that meant he could finally escape, leave the merc business behind him, and maybe kick his feet up. Taking out an Imperial Commander without a trace and no connections, with the payment to match, he could be sipping a few cold ales before the sun was down.

If only his arm was working.

“ _Paying respects to an old friend_ ,” Cassian whispers to himself, “Friends don’t kill each other, last I checked.”

If anything, he is done with Imperials forever. Blabber too much and kill each other when convenient. There is, thankfully, rain to cover his tracks as he leaves behind him the buried body of the Imperial, with him two small graves. The air is heavy and humid, the nearest and only town miles away. His ship is no better.

He sighs, long and weary, allowing the rain to splatter against his tongue, trekking through heavy mud and sand. Perhaps he will make it by daylight at this pace; his arm aching and blood spilling hotly down his arm.

But he is Cassian Andor, and he is nothing if not unlucky.

The blaster cocks against his neck, and his breath escapes through his teeth and nose, whistling. Perhaps the Imperials are not so stupid, to send one of their top commanders with no coordinates, no tracker, and only a handful of guards.

“Who are you?” the voice surprises him, somehow, half angry and half scared.

He dares look down towards his captor, only to find a pair of wide green eyes, terrified in their own right. He should know.

“ _Well_?” She’s not holding the blaster correctly, held oddly between her thumb and forefinger, but he has to admit, it doesn’t scare him any less, and she definitely has the guts for such a tiny thing.

“My name is Cassian Andor, and I seek asylum,” he can see the small farmhouse behind her short head. It is as best a place as any to rest for the night.

“Asylum?” there is distrust in her voice, rightly so.

“Just for the evening.”

“Why would you need asylum? There is no one here, let alone anyone to harm you,” Ah, smart one, “Besides me, of course,” she pushes the pistol further into his neck, to prove her point.

“Ah, well, no one besides you _now.”_

“Not here to buy herbs, then.” Sassy, too.

“Not exactly,” he hisses, arm sore and stinging, nerves twisted.

She looks at his arm, uncertain, then looks into his eyes again, questioning. He grinds his jaw.

“Please. Just for the evening. And then I can explain.”

“Or you can explain now,” she pouts her lips, but it is angry, “What have you done, and why are you here?”

“It does not matter.”

“I live out here to be alone. That doesn’t exactly work when I have men caked in mud and blood showing up out of nowhere, asking for safety.”

He sighs, blood rushing from his body and head starting to spin slowly, nausea crawling up his throat, “I am a mercenary,” she waits, and the cool metal against his neck chafes, “And if you allow me inside, I will tell you all you need to know. I will not harm you. As you can see, I am in no position to fight.”

She eyes him, up and down, and before slowly removing the blaster from his neck, motioning with a tilt of her head for him to follow her, or, for her to follow him, the blaster now at his back.

“I’m sure you could still fight me,” she says, “But I’ll take your word for it.”

He lets out a little, gracious laugh.

And of course, with luck like her father, Cassian passes out as soon as he touches the warmth of her bed. She sighs, sees the blood spilling from his arm onto her sheets, and begins to peel away the slowly drying clothes from his body. The wound is worst than she thought, wishing to call his bluff, and she winces when she sees how deep it cuts through his skin and muscle.

She looks to his face, the paleness of his features as his life slowly drains, the curve of his jaw and the way his nose twitches, just slightly, even when unconscious. She feels her heart _thump_ in her chest.

She clenches her hands into the fabric of her pants, before beginning her work.

\---

Cassian wakes with a start, an old nightmare of the Empire and parents that do not exist haunting his vision. No matter how long, he still is not used to it. He is disoriented, for a moment, before remembering the blood and the rain and the girl with the blaster.

His arm is numb. He wriggles his fingers experimentally, and sighs in relief when he realizes he can still move them, even if barely. It is mostly numb, he finds, but he did not lose his arm – thank the heavens, or perhaps, he should thank that girl who no doubt stitched his arm back to his shoulder.

He tentatively touches the wound, and hisses. The stitches are crude, amateur, but they have saved him a limb, and really, his mind is still too cloudy to really understand the last twenty-four hours.

He takes a breath, recalls killing an Imperial. The green of the large, scared eyes of the farmgirl.

Speaking of which, he looks around the small, cozy house, finds a tea kettle whistling, but no one to take it off the fire. He stands, and his arm falls limply to his side, lets out a curse under his breath.

This was _definitely_ not part of the plan, and even to himself he has to admit that he is certain he won’t be able to pilot with only one good arm, let alone protect himself on his way to the farthest reaches of the galaxy, away from the upcoming war. Well, at least the farthest reaches of the galaxy that don’t include dangerous farmgirls with blasters they don’t quite know how to hold.

He moves the flimsy curtain away from the entrance to the house. The rain has stopped, the air humid and dew forming on the tips of the woman’s garden plants, the sun rising slowly in a haze. She is nowhere in sight, and perhaps he should leave before she threatens him with dangerous weapons again, but instead he takes a step forward. It must be from the haziness in his mind, the loss of blood leaving him foolish. The mud has left her tracks clear in the ground, and he follows them, carefully, his boots sinking into it like quicksand.

It is not long before he finds her. Surrounding her are troops made of metal, their exoskeletons warped and melted away from his gun. This place, here, a tiny alcove hidden between the rocks jutting from the ground of Lah’mu, looks so different in the morning light, its rays sifting through the holes of the cave’s roof.

It looks almost peaceful, and she does not turn to him, yet answers his unspoken question all the same.

“There are only so many places you could have come from, when I found you. I just… kept walking,” she says, her voice numb and tired. He looks from the grave, to her slumped shoulders, to the crude hole he threw the Imperial in.

She turns to him, and the excuses forming on his tongue still. Her eyes are piercing, and he finds himself suddenly at a loss.

“Who did you kill, here?”

He licks his dry lips, “An Imperial Commander.”

“ _Who?”_

He really should not say, but… “Orson Krennic.” He is surprised with the ease that the name rolls off his tongue. She is dangerous, this girl.

She bites her lip, turns back to the shallow grave. The dirt is uneven, the graves beside disrupted by his work.

Everything clicks together, suddenly. He feels his jaw clench, his mouth go dry, an ache in the pit of his stomach at the notion, “I am so sorry. If I had known-“ his words cut off, stuck in his throat.

He is not sure what to say. It is hard, when he does not know his parents, does not particularly mourn their absence. He can see in her, though, that the story is quite different. And even with all of the dead bodies left in his wake, he never got used to the mourning of others. And here, he has disrupted the peace of two parents.

She does not answer him, right away. She remembers Orson from when she was a child. He and her father were good friends, sharing laughs and late nights of discussion. He used to give her toys.

And then he killed Galen, the last she ever saw of her father turning towards his old friend, and the cool, hard lines of Orson’s once kind face. He must have come for a final farewell, after all these years. She is surprised he did not hunt her down, or perhaps she is not. She was, after all, never Galen. Just small Jyn.

“You did what was best,” she says, “Or best for the money, I suppose.”

Despite the whirling of her stomach, she takes a deep breath. The morning air is cool and fresh, and she feels a lightness that she has not felt in a long time. Separated in life, reunited in death. Despite the tears clouding her eyes, she feels it is fitting, for the two old men.

“I have to say, I’m not a fan of the Empire.” And the money was good – enough so that he wouldn’t have to kill anyone else to put food in his stomach. He didn’t say that, though.

“Orson was a good man,” she whispers, almost to herself.

Cassian stares, wide eyed, “You knew him?”

“A friend of my father,” her voice is too gentle.

“Ah.” Makes sense, he supposes.

“I am sor-“

“Are you sorry after every man you kill, or just when it happens to be in your favor?” Her voice is bitter, the tears now falling freely down her cheeks. She chides herself, but it is still hard, after all these years, to look upon the graves of her parents, to see the earth they so loved disturbed so easily.

“These are strange circumstances, I admit.”

She wipes at her tears, a wound scabbed over and scarred, and quietly to herself, she admits it is better to know that she is safe here, in this distant land, away from the reaches of the Empire, that her father’s friend may rest in peace from their dark clutches.

It is a complicated hurt, but as she looks at their graves, her tears dry, slowly, Cassian stock still behind her.

Composed, she turns to him, “Well? I’ve patched you up, you can now walk, what are you still doing here? Leave, mercenary, before the earth swallows you up.”

He shuffles one of his boots through the mud, “Well, that was my plan, yes, but as you can see,” he lifts his arm with his opposite hand, shows her how it flops uselessly to the side, “I am sure you can see my dilemma. I cannot exactly pilot a ship without one of my arms working – and, even if you can’t, I am sure you can imagine the difficulty.”

She pouts, again, and it throws him off guard with how soft the gesture appears, “And how is that my problem?”

He places his hand over his heart, “You have already been so kind to me, and I dare ask this under hard circumstances, but may I stay here a while longer, if only to recover?” Her eyes widen, and he continues, “I promise, I will work if it is what you need, help of any sort.”

“Are you serious? You’ve killed an Imperial Commander, no doubt there will be hundreds of Stormtroopers hunting you down by now,” she scowls, but he can’t help and find the gesture charming, “I would rather not get involved, if possible.” There is no argument in her words.

He shrugs, but it is awkward, considering that his arm is still not following his command, “That would be rather difficult, considering everyone thinks that the Commander is on his way to Scarif,” she stares at him a moment, “It would not do for the Empire to know he was taking a detour.”

She begins turning towards her farm, legs heavy against the earth, “And just yesterday you were asking for asylum.”

“Eh,” he sighs, “There may be others searching for me, but not the forces of the Empire, and easy enough for even you to dispatch.”

She turns. Her eyes flash dangerously, “Is that a challenge?”

“An observation. They will tire long before they come across this patch of mud.”

She begins walking towards her farm again, her back turned to him, shoulders tensed. He hisses, reaches for her shoulder and stills her with his hand on her arm, “Wait, please. I am serious. I will do whatever you need of me. Just give me more time – to hide, to heal, whatever. I just need a little more time.”

Jyn eyes him carefully, a flare of something indescribable pulsing through her veins.

“ _Please,”_ he does not usually find himself begging, especially to someone so small he could probably pick her up, “I will be helpful, I promise. No longer than a month and my arm should be better, and I will be out of your hair. You will never see me again, that I can promise you.” Her face twists at that, but he sees her eyes flickering from his arm to his face, contemplating.

She holds out her hand to him, no blaster, “Jyn Erso.”


	2. Chapter 2

It is strange for her, having someone nearby, at almost all hours of the day. She realizes how different it is, to have someone in her home, willing to help with the sowing of the seeds and the tending of weeds. Despite knowing he is only here out of his own self-pity, and that he is not very good at the tasks she gives him anyway, the feeling is still strange and new.

That first morning, she wakes with a start, sweat dripping from her brow, her hand searching for the blaster she keeps beneath her pillow when she hears the clanging of pots in the kitchen. It’s not there, and she feels panic rising in her gut before a smooth, deep voice speaks.

“Good morning,” and he sounds too amused for someone who has just lost an arm.

She turns to face him, and of course, there is a smirk to match, his hand fumbling with various kitchen utensils. She sees her blaster at the far end of the counter. The sun is just barely rising.

“You’re up early,” she grouses, for her embarrassment and for being woken so abruptly.

“Ah, I do not like to linger in bed. I prefer to be up early and begin my day,” there is a challenge in his eye, and although it is playful, it causes Jyn to frown until her nose hurts.

She feels heat crawling up her neck, “Seeing as you were out until noon yesterday, I respectfully disagree.”

He laughs, and his smile is bright, she notices, despite the circumstances, of course. He reaches for a cup, his fingers fumbling with the spoon he is trying to hold while reaching for the top shelf, his other arm still too numb to realize the mess he is making while it moves listlessly.

She watches him, sees the struggle in the way his face scrunches in frustration and concentration. He laughs, weakly, “Who knew an arm could mean so much, right?”

She takes the cup from his hand, finishes pouring him a cup of tea and passing it to him. He is embarrassed, the flush of his cheeks telling her as much, but she pretends to ignore it, making toast in the silence that follows them.

Once done, their stomachs as full as they will be, the sun hot and bright behind their heads, she tentatively looks over the laceration of his arm. She had worked fervently through the night, her hands shaking the entire time, coated in blood. Now in the light of day, it looks so much worse.

She reaches her hand out, “May I?”

Cassian nods his head, never taking his eyes off of her as she approaches him, gingerly touching the stitches. He hisses.

“Sorry,” she breathes shakily, seeing the wound is still red and angry, “I’m no medic. Can you move your arm, at all?”

She sees the strain in his face as his fingers move, curling just to the crease, before he releases.

She lets out an unsteady laugh, “At least you can still move it.”

He grunts. She moves to the kitchen again, pulling various roots and leaves, mixing them with water in a small bowl and pounding them together, “I,” she swallows, “Don’t think I can do much in terms of the actual stitches, but this should help heal it, stave off infections. Hopefully it will heal faster that way.”

“Will it help get my arm moving again?”

She turns to him, her eyes serious, and thinks for a moment, “We’ll just have to – make it move again. Teach you to grip and move it.”

She can see the frustration in his face as he runs his hand roughly through his hair, the clench of his jaw. If she listens close enough, perhaps she can hear the grinding of his teeth.

“This was – not,” he stops himself, takes a deep breath, “Yes, I suppose we will have to, then.”

The tension in the room is palpable, as she reaches for him again. She wipes the salve across his wound, and he moans at the relief it brings to the burning stinging. Jyn turns away, her cheeks red, and returns her supplies to the kitchen.

“Then we have an arrangement. We train your arm in the morning, and work in the afternoon. That way you’re out of my hair as soon as possible, and my farm doesn’t wither away,” she flicks her bangs out of her face, and begins walking out of the house, Cassian following closely behind.

“It’s not as if I am begging to stay,” he whispers under his breath, and she takes it as much of a ‘yes’ as she’s going to get, shoving a shovel into his good hand.

He stares at it a moment, then back at her.

“You look like you’ve never seen one of these before.”

“I – there is not exactly a need for murderers to handle farm equipment,” he tries heaving it over his shoulder, winded from its unexpected weight on his back, “And you can’t expect me to do – whatever I do with this – with my _injury?”_

Jyn sighs, lifting a bag of seeds in her arms. She turns to Cassian, sees the gears clicking in his head, “Easier carrying that than this bag. And before you start complaining again, _no,_ planting seeds _does not_ take two working arms.”

Cassian grumbles, “I knew that much.”

And they work, long until the sky turns to twilight and their stomachs rumble in protest from the aching in their muscles. And Jyn learns that Cassian is terrible at absolutely everything that deals with farming.

\---

The arrangement moves easily, despite their uneasy partnership. They do not speak much to each other, letting the work on Cassian’s arm and the tilling of dirt do the talking for them. Even with the moving of the days, he does not seem to grasp the art of growing plants, the easiness which Jyn has when watering, uprooting, weeding, but he tries nonetheless, and Jyn is glad for the extra hand when she is deep in her hands in mud, and Cassian is there with a clean rag or bottle of water.

He wakes with the rising of the sun, and each morning attempts again and again to grip cups, spoons, until he is sweating and his arm moves a touch more than it did yesterday. But the work is slow, his arm moving just a touch at the elbow, and in the evenings Jyn hears him swearing, the smoke of his cigarettes blowing in through the open windows of her house and into her bedroom.

But in the mornings, he always has a fresh smile on his face, and she pretends she does not see the red around his eyes from lack of sleep. They do not speak much, after all, and soon she feels the weight of his eyes and his frustrations pounding against her own back.

She goes and digs Orson a proper grave, beside her father, a grave made of the same volcanic rock, with no recognition of his work in the Empire. She sits with her parents, when in those moments, she is worried the Empire will come and rip everything away from her again – her home, perhaps even her life.

She feels, in her gut, that she wants to help Cassian, wishes sometimes to see him smile without the strain that creases his brow, and she does not know why. So, he stays, and every passing day she feels a little safer from the threat he carries upon his back, but not enough.

And then, one night when the stars are particularly bright, and Jyn feels her heart thumping a little faster than usual with Cassian drinking, dancing around her to the song on the radio, his hand falling limply at his side, they get drunk. She probably more than him, but it is enough to get their tongues loose, and she is dancing with him, her arms around his waist as he laughs at the time when she accidentally planted poison ivy instead of the rare herb she _thought_ she had bought. She was scratching for weeks afterwards, looking as if she were perpetually blushing from the stinging rash on her cheeks.

“I _cannot_ believe that story,” Cassian laughs, holding her close with his good arm, a bottle of alcohol swishing in his hand, “You seem too organized for something like that.”

She blushes red, eyes wide as she looks up at him because he is much too tall, “I was, _afterwards.”_

He laughs again, flopping them both down onto her bed until they are side by side, looking up at the ceiling. She feels as if it is spinning around her, and there is a warm silence between them, just their breath and the song on the radio.

“I was orphaned, you know.”

She turns on her side to face him, and even though he is smiling, she can see the lines of hurt that bunch near his eyes.

“Mm, maybe that’s not the right word. But I never knew my parents, not long enough to care about their graves, either way.”

She isn’t quite sure what to say. She watches him, and dares run her fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes at the touch.

“This is nice,” he whispers, “I’ve kill so many people,” his voice is slurred against his words, “And used so many people. I’ve been used by a lot too,” he turns on his side to look at her, their bodies curling in on each other, “It’s nice to see someone with a little bit of life.”

She lets out a shaky breath, her mind feeling dizzy, “My parents died, so long ago, but it still hurts. I-“she swallows, “Orson killed them and – it’s lonely here,” she feels unbidden, tears forming in the corners of her eyes, too many words too say that get stuck in her throat. She feels like vomiting.

He reaches out and cups her cheek, wiping the tears running down it, and his touch is so warm. She grasps his hand in hers, keeps it close to her as they lie there together, and it is more than she has felt since her parents…

He wraps his other arm around her, and the movement is strenuous and taxing but he does it all the same. She curls herself into his chest, and she feels so small against him.

“Thank you, Jyn,” he whispers into her hair, “You and me.”

In the morning, her head is aching, and neither speak of how they wake in each other’s arms, a tangle of limbs and stale breath. But she feels lighter, and there is a smile on her face as she makes breakfast, and laughs about how he has slept in longer than her today, and he smiles in turn.

And after that, she feels there is a change in the air, the way he stretches in the morning light, the ease with which he tries to sow the seeds, although miserably, as if there is a weight off his shoulders. It is a nice change. One that makes her smile, and when Cassian catches it, he smiles right back, and it makes her stomach flip.

And Cassian, well, he has to admit that the earth feels good against his hands, getting stuck beneath his fingernails. It is cool, so unlike the hot blood that would spill upon his hands before – it feels so long ago now. And he can see why Jyn likes it so much, because the earth is so much like her. She smells like it too, fresh, like those early mornings where he waits for her to wake. He will be sad to see it go, as he can feel the movement of his arm, albeit slow, returning.

\---

“It appears you are not so alone as you claim to be,” he remarks, when he sees the slowly approaching figures over the horizon, the beating sun at their backs.

“Let me clarify – I like to be left alone from strange mercenaries who appear on my farm caked in their own blood.”

At that he lets out a laugh, “Fair enough, I suppose.”

“Be prepared,” she warns, smirking, “Chirrut and Baze are quite the handful, and if they like you too much, you won’t be allowed to leave.”

Cassian looks at her then, and she can’t quite place the look that crosses his eyes at her words, but it makes her uneasy and she turns back to her slowly approaching friends.

They visit on the first of the month, as they do every month, carrying with them bags filled to the brim with tools, food, anything she might need for the coming days and crops to sow. In turn she gives them the rare herbs and vegetables that thrive in the dense soil of her land, filled to the brim to be sold in market and made into pastes and dinners.

“Hellooooo!” Baze calls from the distance, one of his arms waving excitedly as his other guides Chirrut through the thick earth. Jyn waves back, already feeling better seeing the wide grins on both of their faces, the way that light seems to follow them everywhere they go.

“And what is this?” His deep, booming voice calls, “Jyn finally found herself a boyfriend?”

She groans, stuffing her face in her hands despite them being covered in dirt, and Cassian beside her lets out a stiff cough.

“I see what you mean,” Cassian whispers to her, trying to catch her eye with a soft smile, but she refuses to look at him, instead focusing her attention on the blind monk and assassin.

“Oh, really now?” Chirrut blinks with his unseeing eyes, as if he would be able to find said boyfriend with just his will alone, although Jyn does not doubt it, “Hello, there, boyfriend! And how are you this afternoon?”

“My name is Cassian!” He calls, voice laced with laughter.

“Oh, a strong name, that is,” Baze nods his head at his conclusion, drawing close enough to shake Cassian’s hand.

“Please, both of you, that is _enough,_ ” Jyn chides, leading Chirrut by the hand with his bags of groceries towards the house.

Baze is already unpacking his filled inventory, handing off equipment and food alike to Cassian, pointing what goes where and beginning to refill them, plucking ripe plants from the ground as Cassian watches in awe, no doubt at his pure speed to rip the vegetables from the soil, leaves and roots alike.

“Well, it is not everyday that we show up here, and there is a strange man living with you,” Chirrut says, finding his customary seat by the large fire in the middle of the room, “Is he at least handsome?”

“Ah, that is a tale I _must_ tell you,” Jyn responds, setting the tea on the fire, allowing Baze to work away at the earth outside. Perhaps _he_ could finally teach Cassian some tricks about working the earth properly.

And she does. She tells Chirrut of the mercenary caked in blood at her doorstep, tears unwillingly coming to her eyes with the death of Krennic, the renewed memory of her father and mother. Chirrut holds her then, promises to bring flowers next month to put on their graves. She tells him of the month following, the warmth that floods her cheeks unbidden, the deep frown that Cassian is here simply to hide until he is safe to leave even more so. She is glad that Chirrut cannot see it, but knows that he knows of her feelings all the same.

“And is his arm any better?”

“A fraction,” she admits, “It was more damaged than I imagined, and although I may grow as many plants as I please, I am not known for my stitch-work.”

Chirrut hums, lost in thought, and Jyn pours him a cup of tea.

Thankfully, he does not prod her further on the subject, telling her of the latest gossip from the market. She sits back, letting the warm tea soothe her throat as Chirrut talks, the warmth of the fire lulling her. It feels all too soon that Baze and Cassian enter the home, Baze’s bags filled to the brim with greens.

Baze snorts, “Look at her, Chirrut, almost falling asleep from all your rambling.”

She opens her eyes, not realizing they were closed, only to find Chirrut elbowing Baze in the side, his brow furrowed in frustration but also obvious amusement. Cassian is watching her, a smirk all too familiar to her now against his lips, and she finds herself staring at them for a moment before looking away.

She pours both the men their own cups, and they perch themselves in various nooks around the small room, Baze on the armrest of Chirrut’s chair, despite his protests that he is too heavy and will knock them both down.

Cassian laughs, and turns his attention to the two men across from him.

“How did you find yourself here?” Cassian asks.

Chirrut sighs dramatically, “Perhaps I should be asking _you_ that.”

Cassian shrugs, hopes it looks suave – for no reason, in particular, “I’m sure Jyn has told you plenty.”

“Ah, that she has. Well, since you ask, there are only so many places a spiritual monk can retire from the reaches of the Empire.”

Baze kisses him on the cheek, making the monk blush, “And I follow him wherever that happens to be. Even if it leads me to distant mud planets.” He grumbles only slightly.

Chirrut turns in Jyn’s direction, “And, there are only so many places to call Jyn Erso a friend.” He winks.

Jyn sighs and pours him a new cup of tea. Cassian smiles at the exchange, the way Jyn rolls her eyes affectionately, Chirrut rambling on about the exchanges at the Lah’mu market (‘Which are few and far between, but all interesting in their own way’).

“You’ve got me there, monk.”

Chirrut smiles, filled with affection, “Yes, I think I do.”

Cassian swallows thickly around the sudden lump in his throat.

“Jyn has also told me about your arm, frayed nerves and the such?” Cassian grunts a yes, “Ah, no way to fly, then.”

“Seems that way,” but his words are half-hearted at best.

“Mm, if Jyn forgot to tell you about us, then she must also have forgotten about our old friend Bodhi.”

Jyn’s eyes widen, and she thinks about late, drunk nights.

“Bodhi?” There is hesitation in his voice. A lover, friend, more than a friend? His mind whirls.

“One of the best pilot’s in the system, that boy is,” Jyn knows where Chirrut is going with this, sees the devilish smirk just at the corners of his mouth, “Knows his way through any make and model of ship you can dream of. Even rents his services out to those who can pay.”

Chirrut takes a delicate sip of tea, and Jyn feels the unnerving need to punch him in the face.

Cassian chokes on his tea, swallowing it down with much difficulty, “A rentable pilot, do you say?” Jyn feels her grip on her cup tighten, anxiety bubbling into her chest. She puts it down, worried she will break it with the nerves pulsing through her hands.

“Yes, of course! You never know when you’ll need one, and even Lah’mu has needs. Why haven’t you told him about Bodhi, Jyn?”

She opens her mouth, closes it again, thinks of something, anything, other than the red creeping up her cheeks.

“I forgot, I suppose.”

“Pft, wait until I tell Bodhi you’ve forgotten about him.”

She feels Cassian’s eyes on her, soft and waiting, but she takes the out Baze affords her, “Serves him right. He should visit more often, is what should happen if he doesn’t want me forgetting about him. Off having adventures with the Rebels when he should be helping me with the crops!”

Cassian smirks, “Well, it’s good to know I’m of some help, at least.”

And she can’t help but smile at him, a burst of pure laughter bubbling against her lips, “And who told you, you were useful?”

Baze, at that, snorts, his tea spilling against his beard and tunic.

\---

“So, a ‘rentable pilot’?” The sky is darkening, Chirrut and Baze’s outlines slowly sinking with the sun.

He is not angry, that much she can tell, but there is definitely more than simple curiosity behind his question.

She crosses her arms across her chest, “I hope you don’t think I’ve been trying to keep you here. As you well remember, I wanted you off my back. I still do,” she amends.

“No of course not. It’s just –“ he pauses, thinks over his words. She notices he is leaning his poor arm against the table, holding his weight against it, and there is a flip in her chest, “He’s still gone, then?”

“Since you’ve stumbled in here,” she confirms, “Who knows when he will return, with the war breaking out?”

Bodhi is brilliant with ships, any kind and any make, even more so in the vastness of space, zipping in and out of gunfire and Imperial ships alike. She hopes he’s safe, even so, that the Rebels and Empire will not steal another from her.

“Ah, well, just so, my arm is still not much better,” he can move the joint to the elbow, hold himself up, but not much else.

Jyn rings her hands together, bites her lip. It is very distracting to him, “Baze just so happened to bring some extra food, this time around. It must have been Chirrut, though, he has always seemed to have a sixth sense about these things,” she rambles.

He dares to reach out, tuck a piece of unruly hair behind her ear. She looks up to him, eyes shining bright, “Then it’s you and me, for a little while longer.”

He thinks he sees her eyes flicker to his lips, for a moment, before she nods, “A little while, then.”


	3. Chapter 3

 

His arm is not getting better. No matter how much Jyn sits with him in the mornings, working to retrain muscle and build control, but his arm is not responding, the nerves too far gone to be of much use to him anymore.

He still persists, however, if only for how close Jyn sits next to him. He can almost feel her warmth, the softness of her touch, and when she holds his arm, prompts it to move, to grasp at various household objects, he  _does_ feel something then, an intimate spark.

The nights on Lah’mu are getting longer, shadows stretching farther and farther against its sooty surface. Everything is a little bit colder, but Jyn has plenty of blankets to share and the fire is always burning hot in her home. Cassian doesn’t mind, especially when she sits closer to him on those chilly evenings, their thighs almost brushing, a pretty blush lighting her cheeks.

And in those moments, if he brushes his leg against hers – only to see embarrassment crawl over her neck and cheeks, of course – and he feels a brush of heat between them, it only guarantees that he will do it again.

Jyn smiles at him, and he returns it, with no hesitation, forgetting for a moment about escaping, and a Rebel pilot on his way back to Lah’mu.

The mornings, though, are so much better – his favorite. In those moments when he still has sleep clouding his eyes, but she is up and making fresh tea, herbs picked the day before. It is refreshing, to have someone to spend the early mornings with, her face fresh and bright and ready to start the day, preparing an extra cup for him to join her. For him to have someone to bump his hip against, and to hear her laugh. 

“Lavendar,” she says one morning, as he takes the cup of hot brew from her hands.

She watches him carefully, holding her breath. This is her thing, tea, and he feels some pride in knowing she shares this with him, values his opinion on the different mixes she prepares.

“ _Just_  lavender?” He raises an eyebrow – most of her concoctions are more complicated, using herbs he has no idea how to pronounce.

“Yes,  _just_ lavender,” she admonishes, but there is laughter in her voice, “I’m certain you’ll love it,” and he can’t stall another minute.

“You’ll make an addict out of me.”

He takes a sip, holding the hot liquid in his mouth for a moment too long, puffing out his cheeks and pretending to contemplate the rich flavor that hits his tongue. He swallows slowly, dramatically, and Jyn giggles –  _giggles,_ truly – swatting at his chest.

“Well?”

He smiles at her, and she feels something pulse in the pit of her stomach.

“When have you ever been wrong before?”

Her mouth twists into a pout, “Well, there was –“

Cassian cuts her off, “One time! I didn’t even know I had an allergy.”

She laughs, her face catching in the morning sun peeking through her window, and he feels his heart, deep and heavy, clench at the sight.

They have been like this, for a while, and yet there are few opportunities that feel as right as this one, Cassian thinks. Perhaps now, he could simply ask. Maybe she would like to go to the market, spend the day with him there? It would not hurt, of course. Well, it  _would,_ if she said  _no_ , but the payoff of a  _yes,_ well…

“Jyn,” he finally says, “I was thinking that – maybe,” she is looking at him, so intently, a brightness in her eyes that he hasn’t seen before, that it stops him, and he swallows thickly to get around the sudden lump in his throat, “That maybe-“

Before he can finish, there is a loud and obnoxious whooping from outside, so sudden, Jyn jumps a little bit.

Cassian swallows his words back into his throat, "Baze?"

Jyn nods her head, " _Definitely_ Baze."

"I thought you said you liked to be alone."

She looks at him, a peculiar look in her eye, "When did I ever say  _that?"_

He doesn't have an answer for that one, and he spends the rest of the afternoon pondering her answer.

\--

The morning is quiet, as it usually is, him trying to plant whatever herbs Jyn handed him with his working arm. Then, all of a sudden, it is not, his ears popping with the tell-tale approach of a ship at light speed, the sound travelling shortly after, the small Rebel plane already landing on the outskirts of Jyn’s farm, carefully avoiding her many precious plants.

He hears Jyn squeal from behind him, sound so sharp and new that he jumps a little. So different from the calm, collected mercenary he once was. It feels like a lifetime ago, already, with the slow, content days here.

Jyn runs past him, mud flying beneath her feet as she meets the pilot exiting the plane, his arms wide and open as she runs into them, and he swings her around, their laughter intermingling in the quiet air.

When the man puts her down, she pushes his chest, “And where have _you_ been? The message you promised me?”

Cassian sees him shrug, sheepish smile and soft voice seemingly placating to Jyn as she guides him towards the house, until they disappear behind the entranceway, Jyn’s excited voice drifting through the window.

He stands there, awkwardly, wondering what he should do. He realizes belatedly that this must be the famous pilot, Bodhi.

He stands there for a moment, letting that thought sink in, as his feet sink into the soft Lah’mu ground. He takes a deep breath, the mist of the morning surrounding his legs. He looks around him, the rising sun, Jyn’s little shack, the smoke coming out of the chimney the only sign of life for miles.

He feels at peace. Lets the feeling sink into his bones, before slowly making his way towards the house.

Jyn is busying herself with tea and the fire, as she is wont to do, and Bodhi is sitting on the kitchen counter, his legs swaying gently against the cabinets.

“Ah?” He says, surprised, “Sorry, my manners,” he says, dropping down.

He is shorter than Cassian, at least, and he takes a small bit of pride from that fact.

“Forgive me, my friend, my name is Bodhi.”

Bodhi extends his hand, a wide smile on his face, twisting the ends of his mustache up into a second smile, “And you are?”

Cassian puffs his chest out, a small puff of nervous pride, shaking Bodhi’s hand with his good arm, “My name is Cassian.”

“And… what are you doing here?” He sounds confused, but the wide, easy smile is still there.

Jyn joins them then, mug in her hand held in a white-knuckled grip, and it’s a mess trying to explain - both of them talking over the other, fixing things and re-fixing until the story is a jumble, the key points missing as they fixate on the details. Both of them irritated with brows furrowed. Jyn is certain the only thing they clearly explained is how to properly water Nysillin.

“Wow,” Bodhi says, finally, when they are both panting for breath.

“And the short of the long of it,” Jyn pants, “Is that he’s hiding here from the Empire, wants to escape the galaxy, _actually,_ but his arm’s busted so he’s stuck.”

Cassian notices the way her nose twitches, that way it does when she is extra annoyed, trying to hide whatever is frustrating her. He opens his mouth to explain further, but Bodhi beats him to it.

“I can take you!” Bodhi smiles, his mustache moving with his lips. Cassian stops, mid-word, and Jyn drops her mug heavily against the counter.

There is silence between the three, Bodhi’s smile still firmly in place.

“Uh-“

“Away from the Empire is easy enough,” he proudly points to the Rebel badge plastered against his breast. 

They had both been anticipating this moment, they know, but it is different now, with Bodhi offering him passage so freely. He thinks they both expected to have a little bit more time.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Cassian tries, absent-mindedly stretching his arm against the counter, inching his way closer to Jyn’s hand still clasped around her mug.

Bodhi scoffs, “Really, it’s not a problem, I insist.”

Cassian rolls his shoulder, thinking of the smooth lies and words he used to use, back in the day, “I – uh, don’t exactly have anything to pay you with,” Cassian chuckles awkwardly, and Jyn’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“So, your brilliant plan was to escape the galaxy with _no money?_ For fuel, or _anything_?”

Cassian shrugs, trying to brush off Jyn’s sudden, insistent poking of his weak arm, “In case you didn’t know, I _was_ running away from the galaxy. Mercenary, remember? It isn’t cheap to be forgotten.”

Jyn stares at him a moment, the word _was_ ringing in her mind. She tries to ignore it, a slip of his tongue, no doubt, but Bodhi cuts between them.

“You’re a mercenary?” He asks, eyes wide.

“I _used_ to be a mercenary, there’s a difference.”

“He wasn’t here to kill _me,”_ Jyn amends, trying to sort out the jumble that is Cassian and Bodhi, “We-“

Bodhi shrugs her off, still pumped from the adrenaline of flying, Jyn can see, “That’s all I need to know,” Cassian smiles at that, “Well, you’re a friend of Jyn’s, so no charge on me,” Bodhi smiles brightly, and Cassian’s dims, “I’m heading back towards our training camp, though, so you’ll have to find your way from there. But don’t worry, it’s far from any Imperials – ‘edge of the galaxy’, even,” Bodhi salutes, and Cassian swallows thickly.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, looking to Jyn’s face, but she is already turned around, washing her tea kettle.

He feels his cheeks flush. Bodhi claps him on the shoulder, and he automatically flexes his fingers, before remembering himself.

“Don’t thank me yet, we still have a month to go. Hopefully you and Jyn won’t kill each other by then,” he says, so seriously it almost makes Cassian laugh.

“He wasn’t here to kill me!” Jyn exclaims, dropping the kettle in the sink, exasperation coloring her voice and cheeks.

Cassian smiles, but Bodhi is already out the door with wrench in hand. Cassian can see the borrowed Rebel ship means a lot to the man, his mind already whirring on how to adjust and fix and make it better. Jyn turns around, and Cassian catches her eye. She smiles at him, softly.

“Besides, it’s not like we killed each other yet.”

“Yet,” he agrees, running his left hand over his right arm, an incessant habit he picked up. Silence falls between them, awkward, and Jyn wipes her hands on her apron.

Slowly, she begins walking towards him, that little pout on her lips that he is certain will undo him. She takes his weak arm in her hands, running her thumb over his palm. Her touch is distant, a little numb, but it still feels like a spark, and he keeps his eyes on hers, careful.

She breaks his stare, looking down at his arm, “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” she laughs softly, but it is sad.

“You have done-“ his voice catches, but Jyn looks at him, eyes open and pressing, “ _more_ than enough.”

She runs her hand over his cheek, days old stubble prickling her hand, and he turns into her touch, “You have too.”

He smiles, “I am happy to hear it.”

\--

Jyn thinks she can hear Cassian snoring from inside her hut, his arm irritating him the whole day previous. He needs the sleep, but she is anxious, feels it in her bones, and Bodhi still has the adrenaline of fighting the Empire in his veins, so they stay up together. Jyn sets out a blanket and snacks for the two of them, and Bodhi tells her all of the adventures he has been on, fighting the Empire and helping the Rebels.

Her eyes are starry with his energy, but she knows that is not the life for her. Her roots are here, but she imagines what it would be like to travel across the galaxy like Bodhi, so free and confident.

When the excitement dies and they enjoy each other’s company below the sky of stars, Bodhi turns to her, serious.

“I’ve met someone.”

Jyn smiles, her dimples almost swallowing her cheeks, “Who?”

“A handsome young man,” Bodhi nods his head, confirming his own words, “An engineer. He is a genius with ships.”

Jyn laughs, lightly, “Ah, he sounds perfect.”

She can see the blush on Bodhi’s cheeks, “He is. Truly. I do not think I could ever be happier.”

Jyn takes Bodhi’s hand in hers, hugging it against her cheek, “I am so happy for you, Bodhi, you deserve it.”

“And what of your handsome, stray mercenary? You cannot hide your blush from me!” He squeezes her cheek, making her laugh until she squirms away from his seeking hands.

“He is quite handsome.”

“We can all see that.”

“And he is soft, even though he doesn’t like to admit it.”

Bodhi turns his head to the sky, “Soft is good, sometimes.”

Jyn gasps, slapping him gently against his chest, “ _Stop_ that.”

They laugh, voices soft so as not to wake Cassian, and sit there, watching the stars pass by over their heads.

“I love him,” Jyn whispers softly, “Or I could love him. I’m certain of it. I hope that, when you have to leave, he stays,” she admits.

Bodhi takes her hand once more, and says, “I am certain of it.”

\--

“My dear Jyn,” he says one morning, voice still gruffy from sleep. It sets Jyn’s nerves tingling.

“Yes, Ser Cassian?” She replies playfully.

“I do not remember how long I have been here.”

“How unfortunate,” she pouts at him, and it takes all his willpower to keep his focus off her bottom lip.

“But I do believe you have a million teas. I have never had the same one twice.”

“And the problem is?”

“I do not think there is one,” Cassian laughs, and Jyn joins him shortly after.

It is pointless, and it feels like home.

\--

Baze and Bodhi can be heard outside, Jyn yelling at them to get back to work, but to Cassian, it looks like none of them are getting anything done.

“How have things been here?” Chirrut asks from his customary seat from the fireplace, “It feels warm, here.”

“The fire _is_ blazing.”

Chirrut waves his hand, dismissing the notion, “You know what I mean. It sounds like I’m talking to Jyn.”

Cassian ducks his head, leaning against the windowsill, frost covering the deep brown of the soil outside.

“Yes, I know what you mean,” he finally replies, voice quiet.

“Jyn is happier,” Chirrut replies, matter of fact, “Less lonely. She smiles more.”

“…I am happy to hear it. She is beautiful when she smiles.”

“You are good for her,” Chirrut says, steeping his tea, and Cassian watches him closely, the man rare in his praise and wise in his words.

He looks at his arm, a scar of the man he used to be, “She has been better to me than I think I deserve.”

Chirrut nods his agreement, “But that does not mean you have to leave.”

The man is wiser than Cassian is comfortable with.

“Bodhi is leaving soon, for the winter campaign. Have you made a decision about his offer?” Chirrut continues.

Cassian clears his throat, “I have never been more content than I have been here. I almost do not know what to do with myself,” he pauses, “I think you know my answer to that, and have known for a while.”

“You are not wrong about that,” Chirrut nods, sipping his tea, “Then perhaps you should stay. I do not think Jyn would say no.”

Cassian grins, wide and bright, a sudden sense of peace overtaking him, “Of course, what would she do without my amazing farming skills?”

Chirrut laughs, so long and hard that Jyn checks in on the two, to make sure he is alright.

\--

He has stayed here longer than he thought, with long mornings and easy afternoons. When he breathes, for a moment, there is no weight heaving against his chest. It is wonderful, to feel the mud and blood that has caked his fingers for so long slowly wash away with each orange morning.

It is perhaps more wonderful to feel trust, in the way Jyn smiles at him, or the way she allows him to stay. It has been long fought, for months, but it is worth it, to know he does not have to run.

Bodhi prepares his ship outside, making last minute adjustment with the donated parts of Cassian’s now rusty and junked ship. When Cass had offered the parts to the pilot, he was certain Bodhi’s eyes were going to pop from their sockets. Jyn had sat with him long into the night, giving him quiet thanks and pretty smiles.

Now, her fingers fidget anxiously against the counter, lip swollen from her biting at it all morning, eyes distant as he approaches her. He doesn’t have any bags to pack.

She turns to face him, avoiding his eyes, watching Bodhi work through the window. It is silent, this moment important, he knows, and he hopes he does not send this to hell.

“It is time you left, then,” she says, distant, wanting to keep the hurt from her voice.

“I was wondering,” he says, slowly, and she turns her attention to him. He wishes to pull her into his side. But not yet.

“If you would be terribly inconvenienced if I stayed,” her eyes widen, but she otherwise does not show any surprise. There is little that can surprise her, nowadays.

Instead, she watches him, eyes wide, searching. And slowly, she reaches for his hand, taking it into hers, threading their fingers together. Her hand is warm, and he allows himself to bring it to his cool lips, kissing it gently.

She laughs, short and sharp, a very Jyn laugh, “Took you long enough.”

One of his eyebrows raises, “Oh, I am the only one keeping their silence?”

He enjoys their easy teasing, but those thoughts leave his mind as soon as Jyn rests her hand against his chest, eyes suddenly bright, “Alright, enough talking, for once in your life.”

Her lips are soft, incredibly so, and their breaths puff in small clouds around their heads. Cassian is quiet, and Jyn laughs, causing him to capture her lips again, the smile still on her lips.

“Hey!” Bodhi calls from the distance, hands on his hips, “I’m still here. At least send me off with a proper goodbye.”

\--

It is not until late into the night, when Bodhi had left, his ship blasting off at light speed, and they sit together by the warm fire, bodies fitted together until there is no space between them, that Jyn threads her hands together behind his neck.

Her kiss is light, hesitant at first, before it becomes all consuming, their breath mingling until Cassian is not certain he can breathe, not that he cares. She tugs at the hair on the nape of his neck, and he hisses into her collarbone, her breath sharp against his cheek.

She brings him up with her body, dragging them to her room, until she is beneath him and he is sitting up on his good arm, their bodies pressed tightly together.

Their lips meet, again and again, before he kisses her cheek, “I love you,” escaping him over and over again, a chant against her skin, and she repeats it, a grin on her face, happy tears clouding her eyes before he kisses those away too, and she then she begins tearing away at his clothes.

He does not have a ring to give her, but they whisper vows into the other’s skin, words burning into their souls. And she smiles, bright in the dim light of her room.

And there they live, down on the plains of Lah’mu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHH! I AM DONE! I am so sorry for the wait, life got in the way of everything, but thank you so much everyone for sticking with this story! I wanted a calm feel throughout the story, to contrast the chaos of the movie, so hopefully this ending was good and not too boring or anything, but yeah, I *might* write more in this universe, but this is the end for now :) thank you once more everyone for enjoying this happy little corner of Lah'mu with me!
> 
> UPDATE: I realize I messed up and there was a lot of over-lap that didn't line up with the old chapter 3 and 4, so I deleted it and combined some of the details from that chapter into this one, I hope it is more cohesive now :)


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